Demons
by AzraelPhoenix
Summary: Sinking back onto the hard bed, he stared at his hands. One, flesh, exactly as it had been in his dreams, apart from the scars crossing his palms. The other, metal, scraped and scarred. A weapon. A living weapon. That's all he was now. Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, death, murder. Stucky.
1. The Golden Age

_He stares out the window, blank as a canvas_  
><em>Made up in the sunlight and swirling smoke and ash<em>

**1921**  
>He ran over, pushing people out of the way, a hard feat for a four year old. It mainly involved kicking peoples shins until they moved, but he wasn't going to tell anyone that. Breaking through the small crowd, he saw something he hadn't expected. His best friend in the whole wide world sitting in the middle of the street, his mother wrapped around him, crying like her heart was breaking. There was a uniformed man standing beside them, looking sad, oh so sad. "Stevie?" He ran over, just avoiding his own mother's arm reaching out to grab the back of his shirt, and knelt next to the pair. Immediately, Steve's mother opened her arms and pulled him in too, hugging the two of them tight. Steve didn't say anything, looked shocked into silence for once in his life.<p>

"Sarah? Oh God Sarah no." He heard his mother's voice as he held on, and that's when he knew something was really, truly wrong. He felt his mother's warm embrace, surrounding the three of them, as Steve's mother sobbed "Joseph, he's … he's…"

_The view shifted, the world blurring, spinning, until it solidified again, in a different place, a different time._

**1925**

He was eight, walking down the main road, a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread clutched in his arms. His first errand, his mother had sent him down to the store to pick up their usual fare. He was on his way home, congratulating himself on being a grown up, when he heard shouting, and the sound of a fist hitting a brick wall. He stopped, turned, looked at the alley where it had come from, then looked at his house, at the end of the street. He looked back at the alley as the shouting continued, then made his decision. Putting the milk and bread on the ground, close to the wall so no one would trip over it, he ran into the alley, ready to help. What he saw was surprising, but not unexpected. Steve, climbing off the ground, wiping blood off his lips, glaring down a kid much bigger than him, who was two years older than him. He didn't hesitate. Throwing himself into the fray with a shout, he kicked the bully in the back of the leg, punched his head, generally making a commotion. The bully hadn't been expecting that, fell back, yelping. "You leave him alone! Don't you dare touch him again!" He stood between Steve and the bigger kid, who thought twice, and then turned tail and ran. As soon as he did, he turned to Steve, grabbing his face, looking for the source of the blood.

"It's just a cut, Buck, don't worry about it. Honestly I'm fine."

"Why do you do this Steve? Why do you pick fights with kids twice your size?"

"I don't like bullies. He was hurtin' a cat, buck. Cat who couldn't stand up to him."

He pulled the smaller boy into a hug, then punched his arm lightly. "Come see mum, she'll have you fixed up quick."

_Again, shifting, his mind throwing a different scene into the forefront._

**1933**  
>"No, Buck, it doesn't work like that. You have to match the pronoun to the gender of the object." Steve frowned.<p>

He screwed up his nose. "But _why_? Why do inanimate objects have gender? Why do they need pronouns? It's a chair, not a lady. Spanish is stupid." His best friend sniggered, and pointed at the line in their homework.

"Because it is, I don't know, but unless you want to fail Spanish again you should probably just write it down so we can move on to history."

"You mean so I can move on to history, you've been working on that for an hour."

"No, I've been helping you with Spanish for an hour."

"Have you really? I suck at this, don't I? I'm bilingual and yet I can't do this what the _hell_."

"Hey, learning languages isn't your thing. It's different growing up with more than one language. And you're better at history anyway, your scores are nearly double mine most of the time."

"Steve …"

"Yeah Buck?"

"What are you drawing?"

His friend flushed, and tucked the paper underneath the book in front of him, dropping his pencil. "Nothing."

He didn't ask again, not wanting to push his friend. Steve had been pretty sick lately, and with his mother working in the ward late nights and long days, Steve was staying with them. God, he was so glad that Steve was happy, smiling, joking again. It had been close, at some points, when he had thought his best friend wouldn't make it. Steve had always been sickly, scrawny, but recently he had been worse, barely able to get out of bed some days. Rheumatic fever, the doctors had said. Stay away from him just in case, they had said. He had ignored them, skipping school, talking to Steve, reading to him, hell, singing to him, anything to let him know that he wasn't alone. Every so often Steve would look at him as though he knew exactly what had been said during those long days and nights, but it always faded quickly, as though he was doubting his own memory. Some of those things he had never said before, hadn't said since, would probably never say again, and he didn't know whether he was glad that Steve didn't remember or not.

"Okay, what about the next line then?"

A few hours later, when Steve had gone to the bathroom, he leaned over, pulled the scrap of paper out from under the history book, and froze. God, Steve had drawn … _him._ Him laughing. Him happy. Tucking the paper back where he had found it, he sat back in silence. Was that how his friend saw him? Because that small portrait, drawn on the back of a work sheet, had been _radiant_.

_It wouldn't stop, he couldn't stop remembering. Why was he remembering this? Why was his past coming back to him? Why now?_

**1936**  
>The funeral had been hard on all of them. His mother had wept openly, the others in the congregation hauntingly silent as the casket had been lowered. But he hadn't been looking at them. No, he had been watching Steve. Steve, standing alone, spine rigid, standing stiffly, watching his mother leave him for the last time. As soon as the priest had stopped talking, had dismissed them, he was moving, jumping chairs, bumping people out of the way, until he stood just behind Steve. He reached out, put a hand on his shoulder. His friend turned, looked at him with empty eyes, and whispered, "She's gone."<p>

**2014**  
>He awoke with a yell, throwing himself upright, tearing himself out of the dream, the memory. Slumping, he panted, sweat running down his forehead, into his eyes. Wiping it away, he looked around. Not the apartment in Brooklyn, not the barracks. No, it was a small, modern looking room. A motel? Yes. He had checked into a motel the night before, needing to sleep after three days of running. Running from Steve. Oh god, why was he running? What had gone so wrong between them? He could remember, the only scenes flickering through his mind those of their childhood, of the scrawny kid who he had fallen head over heels for by the age of ten. The kid he had never told, the kid who had never thought of them as more than friends.<p>

Sinking back onto the hard bed, he stared at his hands. One, flesh, exactly as it had been in his dreams apart from the scars crossing his palms. The other, metal, scraped and scarred. A weapon. A living weapon. That's all he was now.

_Don't wanna let you down__  
><em>_But I am hell bound_

* * *

><p><strong>The first quote is from the song The Ballad of Jeremiah Peacekeeper, by Poets of the Fall. The second quote is from Demons, by Imagine Dragons.<strong>


	2. War

_Do you remember standing on a broken field  
>White crippled wings beating the sky<em>

**1941**

"Steve, don't tell me you tried ag-"

"I've got to do my part, Buck. You're doing yours. You've signed up, you're going to do what you can for our country."

"Steve, you are doing your part. People like me, we're the grunts, we can fight and die to serve our country, with the only loss being the sheer numbers of deaths. You, you're one of the great minds. Our country needs people like you, staying here, ready to take over and push us back into the sun."

"Buck-"

"I'm serious Steve."

"I know you are.

"I'll also support you whatever you want to do."

"What?"

"If you want in, if you really want to get out of Brooklyn so bad, I'll support you."

_The smile lighting up the smaller man's face stayed with him as the surroundings faded, twisted into something new._

**1942**

God he missed his family. His mother, father, sisters. There was only one person he missed more. Crouched in a trench, back against the wooden slats, he wrote on crumpled paper, hand cramping as he tried to get everything he wanted to say out. _Hope you're still studying, Steve. You really wouldn't want to be here. I think I'd prefer Ms. Grace's Spanish class to the trenches, but no going back now._ He was glad Steve had chosen to stay in Brooklyn. Glad he was safe. The punk had everything under the sun wrong with him, his asthma alone would have gotten him killed out here. At least it was quiet now, a temporary ceasefire had been called to allow each side time to collect the dead, and they were using that down time to write letters. He glanced around, noting that every person he could see was writing. Sometimes war was necessary, but it pulled families apart. He pulled out a cigarette, nudged the man next to him. "Hey, Gabe, got a light?" The big man grinned and pulled a lighter out of his pocket, lighting both the cigarette pointed at him, and one for himself.

"Do you think we're going to get out of this, Barnes?"

"I've got people to get back to, can't think any different."

Gabe laughed, then said, "Have you heard about this 'Captain America' guy?"

"Yeah, heard he's a bit of a prat. Travelling with his dancing girls, living in the lap of luxury most probably. What I wouldn't give to be in his place."

"Anywhere but here, brother. Anywhere but here."

_Flickers of the golden-haired boy again, smiling like he was the light of the sun, barely visible beyond the swirling abyss of the changing dreamscape._

**1943**

All he could feel was pain. That's the only thing that told him he was alive. Damnit! One minute they were tramping through the undergrowth along the Italy/Austria border, the next, they were under attack. They hadn't stood a chance. Some people had escaped, he knew that. Some people had died. Most, like him, had been captured. They had weeded him out of the group, for god knows what reason, and put him in here. Tied him to this hospital bed, and left him, screaming profanities. He had been left, alone, for hours, until a man came in, looking like he had just hit the jackpot. Then the torture had begun. Up to the point where his insides felt like they were paste, his body and mind reaching out for something, anything that would stop this. He didn't tell them anything, didn't answer any of their questions, not even when they started drugging him, trying anything to get him to talk. No, the only noises he made were screams, raw and loud, until he lost his voice. There was white lightening in his blood, in his bones, and he could barely differentiate truth from hallucination. There, that, there was no way that was real. The man coming towards him looked like sunshine condensed into human form, and wrapped in the American flag. "Bucky?" The sunshine was talking to him. He turned his head to face him, eyes squinting, trying to work out who the hallucination was supposed to be. "Bucky? It's me, Steve." He felt a hand on his skin, soft, oh so soft compared to the steel at his back, and that's when he realised it wasn't a hallucination.

_Why was he remembering this? Why couldn't he just remember the man with the golden hair, why couldn't he just remember being happy?_

**1944**

The shot echoed in his ears, and he discharged the empty cartridge, the rifle popping as he did. These Hydra-made weapons were much superior to the standard issue ones. Something to do with the haunting blue light that made up part of the barrel, and was discharged every time the weapon was fired. Those Hydra techs had something dangerous up their sleeves, that was for sure. He peered through the sight again as he shifted his finger from the trigger, spotting the Captain as he turned and signalled _ok_ back. He moved then, sneaking soundlessly through the underbrush, removing his footprints with the brush of a branch at every step. He set up again, not far from the first point, taking aim at another enemy soldier. Cap had once called him the Guardian Angel of the Howling Commandos, and he supposed it was true. He never let a single sentry raise the alarm, never let a single sniper take aim on his team. He was silent, and he was deadly. And that was just fine in his books.

_He had never felt happy before, he was sure of it, and yet that was what soaked this memory. Happiness._

**1944**

He jumped, but it wasn't enough. The impact of the shot left him breathless, and he was flung backwards, into the wall, through the wall of the moving train. He shouted, hands scrabbling for something, anything to hold on to, and when he latched on to a piece of railing, he almost sighed in relief. But it wasn't over. Not at all. The train they were on, well, that was speeding through the Alps, and was currently high above anything that resembled ground, winding around the outside of a mountain. "Bucky!" The shout of his best friend, and then there he was, reaching out for him, face panicked. He wasn't close enough, but he held out a hand anyway, straining, doing everything he could to reach the outstretched palm. It wasn't enough. Steve moved closer, going so far as to slide out onto the railing himself, reaching fingers getting closer, closer. He stretched again, felt the faintest brush of fingers, and then his stomach dropped as he heard the railing crack. He threw himself forward, in one final attempt to gasp Steve's hand, but it wasn't enough. He saw his friend lunge, screamed as the railing snapped under his hand, and then he was falling.

_ Falling into the dreamscape, swirling thoughts solidifying in memory again._

**1944**

The pain was reminiscent of his time with Hydra - all-consuming. He groaned, not sure how he had survived the fall. The experiments that had been done on him a year before probably had something to do with it. Breathing hurt, he had probably broken not only his back, but ribs, and possibly his pelvis. The only thing he could see in the haze of white was red, gushing out of his arm. Or, what was left of it. Everything below the elbow was gone. Completely gone. He couldn't move, could barely think, just lay there, waiting for the cold, or the wildlife, to finally finish him off.

A day. A day he lay there. The bleeding had stopped fairly quickly. He could almost feel the bones knitting themselves back together. Nothing had come for him, surprisingly. No animals, no people. Every so often he swore he heard the sound of a train, high above, but he could have been imagining it Then there was a shout. Not him, not anyone he knew, but a voice, shouting incoherently. He blacked out.

**2014**

The dreams were mixing, merging, but he could always tell them apart, he could always tell which faces went with which feelings went with which events. This time, when he woke, he was shaking, chills down his spine, sweat covering his body, and he had the dawning realisation that someone was in the room with him. He threw himself backwards, rolling off the bed, pulling the gun out from under his pillow as he did. Landing on one knee next to the bed, he snarled, baring his teeth, but the black shadow didn't make any threatening moves, simply raising one hand, the other reaching for the light switch. It flicked on, the harsh lights blinding him temporarily, but the gun didn't waver. Not until he realised who it was.

"Buck? I'm not here to hurt you. It's me, Steve."

_The memories of shadows, ink on the page  
>And I can't seem to find my way home<em>

* * *

><p><strong>The first song is War, by Poets of the Fall. The second is Far From Home, by Five Finger Death Punch.<strong>


	3. Red

_Hold It together_

_Birds of a feather_

_Nothing but lies and crooked wings_

**1944**

He was strapped to a table again, completely immobilised. He tried to move, but couldn't even muster the strength to open his mouth as people in white coats bustled around him. The pain had faded, but he could still _feel_ his left arm. It wasn't a dream, it hadn't been a dream, he knew that. But he could feel it as though it was still there. But it wasn't. It was in a ravine somewhere in the Alps. A laugh bubbled up, hysteric and panicked, only stopped because he couldn't open his mouth, couldn't move his lips, couldn't even swallow. Oh god, this was really happening. Something must have moved, because one of the white coats looked over at him, frowned, and then drew a syringe out of a drawer. _Oh god, oh god, oh go_- the pinch of the needle, and then black.

He woke, drowsily, to see a squat, balding man leaning over him. He felt … strange… both complete and incomplete at the same time. He lifted his arms, surprised when they obeyed, and stared down. That … that wasn't his hand. That was shining metal, panels shifting with the motion. It wasn't him. It was so completely not him that his mind rebelled, and he lashed out, that metal thing grasping onto the soft throat of the person closest to him, and then he was squeezing, crushing, and he felt nothing. Nothing to tell him that he was holding anything, nothing to tell him that this thing was actually connected to him beyond the pulling of muscles at his shoulder, and growing panic. A needle prick. Darkness swelled, but it was too late.

_Confirmed Kills: 1_

**1960**

He opened his eyes. Nothing had changed. The small cell he sat in was bare, windowless, with only a steel door to break the concrete walls. He looked down, at his legs. Carved into the skin, scratched into him, were two words. On the right, _disobey_. Disobey who? How? There was no hope, no chance to escape this life he had. He was a tool, a weapon, a nameless figure in the shadows of history._ Steve_, on his left leg, each letter deeper than the last, the skin around the word raw, blood seeping like it was fresh. It looked frantic, but he felt nothing now. Who was Steve? What did this person mean to him, that he would scratch that name into his own skin with nothing but his nails? A flash of memory, golden hair and a smile like sunshine, and then it was gone. The skin was already beginning to knit itself back together, slowly erasing the words. There was a flare of panic, of something lost, something he needed, the sudden urge to dig his infers into his flesh again, but then it faded. He was a weapon. He had no need for memories.

_Confirmed Kills: 6_

**1963**

"Это время для вас, чтобы доказать свою лояльность к нам." _It's time for you to prove your loyalty to us._ The man in front of him was holding a thin manila folder, holding it out to him. "Это ваша цель. Вы планируете его, вы делаете убить себя. Он должен быть публичным, мы хотим очень четкий сигнал, чтобы быть. Последний из всех: не попадитесь. Все ясно?" _This is your target. You plan it, you make the kill yourself. It has to be public, we want a very clear message to be made. Last of all: don't get caught. Are we clear?_

"Сэр." _Sir_. A sharp nod. He didn't feel like himself, felt like he was missing something, the vague itching at the back of his mind screaming for him to stop. He ignored it. He would play his part, he would do these things for the greater good. It was on him.

"Хорошо. Уволен." _Good. Dismissed._

He took the file with him, a file usually so thick he could barely hold it in one hand, this one only had one slip of paper in it. He opened the file, stared at the name on the paper. It meant nothing to him. It should have, but it didn't.

_John F. Kennedy._

Getting the information had been easy. No one noticed him as he mingled, listening for whispers about the target. He heard something, hushed voices. He turned, spotted the one he needed, followed him into a quickly darkening alley. A rush of movement, and he had the person face first against the wall, knife to his throat. A brief command. The information flowed. Time, place, it was all in this man's head, and now in his. A whimper, begging. His head cocked to the side, and he stepped back, merging with the shadows once more. The muffled pop of a silenced weapon. The man who knew too much now knew nothing, lying on the ground with a clean bullet hole in his forehead. He slipped away, leaving no trace of himself.

The others were in place, scattered around the plaza, high and low, some hidden completely, others lurking in plain sight. He lay on a rooftop, the body of his rifle stretched out in front of him, focusing down the scope at the exact location the target would be in less than a minute. This was too easy. High profile as this was, there was going to be more to this than what he could see. An inkling, the tickling of _knowing_. He whispers into the radio, hears a soft pop. The bullet, fired straight and true, swerved, and that's when he fired, twice, hitting his target once in the throat and once in the head. Both were kill shots. The other snipers took the hint, shooting off a few rounds before disappearing into the chaos, just as he did. A ghost.

_Confirmed kills: 13_

**1972**

The man before him had a name. He wasn't sure why that fact was sticking in his mind. Leo. This man was like him, and yet not. A weapon, but more. He lashed out, striking hard and fast, looking for an opening, any hesitation, any slip up. He had trained the man well, there was no opportunity. Until, being driven backwards by the furious assault, he wavered, foot slipping on the ground they stood on. That was all he needed. The Asset leapt, taking the opening and using it, driving the other man to the ground with a quick and bloody movement, knife to his throat. There was no fear in the man, no hesitation. His eyes said _do it then, finish it_. He didn't, stepping back, sheathing the knife at his back. There was shocked silence, and then the sound of one man slowly clapping. "Очень хорошо. Вы обучили его хорошо." _Very good. You have trained him well_. The asset didn't move, didn't even look at the speaker, not even breathing heavily. The arm whirred, panels shifting, reminiscent of muscles, as he forced himself to stand still, to obey. It was different now, there was something … different … in his mind. There were times he had woken to the fleeting image of gold, of _feeling_. It faded, it always did. But it was there, something that didn't belong. Это последний. Вы будете возвращаться к доктору Золя обратно в лед." _That is the last. You will be going back to Dr. Zola, back to the ice._ He didn't flinch, didn't display any reaction, but inside, something snapped. No, not again, not the ice. "Уволен." _Dismissed_. He turned, sharp. He walked, brisk. Marched himself right back to the doctor, back to the ice, back to the cold. And if anyone knew he lay in that tube for hours, unable to move, slowly freezing, as the serum failed to put him out, well, no one said anything.

_Confirmed Kills: 15_

**1998**

Of all of the young women he had worked with, she was the best. The most vicious, the most uncaring. The best student. And yet, she also had a name. Natalia Romanova. 17. Lithe, strong, and fast. Of any of the women he had trained, she was the most worthy. He deflected her kick, blocked her punch, and when she leapt, trying to get her legs around his throat, he blocked it with an arm. The metal pulsed, and then she was flying across the ring, crashing into the corner post. His head cocked to the side, and he didn't turn away, but a voice rose up, sharp and clear. "достаточно." _Enough_. Was that him? Was that his voice? It was harsh, deep, it sounded like he hadn't used it in years. Which was true. His arm lifted, his hand outstretched, palm up, as though presenting her to the people surrounding the ring. "Она готова." _She is ready._ His fingers curled into a fist, his hand thumping against his chest. "Black Widow."

_Confirmed Kills: 42_

**2014**

He woke up to a hand on his shoulder. The lightest touch. His eyes opened, and it was him, the golden haired man, standing over him, real as the mattress against his back. "Bucky, James, wake up." His eyes narrowed, flicked around the room, looking for a threat. Nothing. His gaze returned to the man looming over him, who shook his head. "Nothing there. It was you. You were …" He fell silent, swallowing hard.

It was day time. They had chosen to travel at night, easier to keep off the radar then. It meant that they always slept in bright rooms, the motel curtains never fully blocking the sun out. That sun streaked over the man standing beside his bed, illuminating the tightness of his jaw, the distressed expression.

It had been a week since Steve had found him. Instead of taking him away, dragging him back, kicking and screaming, he had quietly informed him that he would be joining this suicide mission. Everything in him rebelled against it, but he hadn't verbally protested, just watched as the man had made himself at home.

Steve always said that name. James. Bucky. He knew it was him, knew it was _his_ name, but he couldn't accept it. Not yet. He couldn't remember much, but he knew that James had been a good man. Had fought beside Steve, protected him. Loved him. That wasn't him. He wasn't a good man. He didn't deserve to fight with Steve, didn't deserve to even look at him, let alone love him. He was nothing but a weapon, loosed on his previous wielders. Maybe one day he would be James. Maybe one day he would accept it when Steve called him Bucky, but not now.

"You were screaming, Buck."

_I'm not a fan of puppeteers_

_But I've a nagging fear_

_That someone else is pulling at the strings_

* * *

><p><strong>The first song is Evil Angel, by Breaking Benjamin, the second is Discord, by The Living Tombstone.<strong>


	4. Winter

_All the wounds that are ever gonna scar me_

_For all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me_

**2013. September.**

He woke to find himself strapped to the medical table. His mind was foggy, he didn't remember anything at all, just had the feeling that this was normal. He didn't fight it then, tense but compliant. Many of the faces around him he didn't recognise, though some triggered a sense of familiarity. Strange. He flexed his hands, the whirring of the prosthetic the only sound in the room beyond the hum of the machines around him. He went to open his mouth, but realised that there was a rubber mouthpiece in the way. He twitched his jaw, staring up at the ceiling. It had to be there for a reason, so he didn't spit it out, just let it sit there as he tried to clear his head. Who was he? The thought slipped away, the knowledge evading his grasp. He let it be, trying to remember anything that could tell him what was going on. Vague flickers of cold, of ice, flickers of blood and steel. He stopped thinking about it, just lay there in silence. No need to remember that. No need at all. He heard footsteps approaching, and his eyes flicked down. That man he remembered. He didn't flinch, but he tensed further, waiting for the first strike. It didn't come. The man, his handler, just stood there, by his head, looking down at him.

"Is it-he stable?"

"Yes, sir. The last of the boosters were administered half an hour ago. He should be fully functional in ten minutes."

His eyebrows furrowed. He hadn't missed the slip, hadn't missed the moment when his handler had referred to him as it, as though he wasn't even a person. _Am I even a person? Surely a person remembers more than this. What if he's right? What if I'm not?_ He tuned back in, wiping his face of all emotion, to hear the person, the head scientist he guessed, continue.

"-time in the simulation room to shake off the ice, then go to the armoury. He'll be ready for his orders in an hour, as long as everything goes well."

"Good. Have him sent to my office when he is ready."

His handler moved away, disappeared from the limited field of vision he had, given that his head was strapped to the bench still. The head scientist came over then, approaching carefully, and removed the rubber from his mouth.

"Are you calm?"

"Yes."

Was that his voice? He didn't think he had answered aloud. Eyebrows furrowing again, he licked his teeth, and then mentally shrugged. Not something he needed to worry about. The scientist gestured to someone behind him, and there was a click as the pressure of the metal bands pinning him down was removed. He didn't move for a moment, and then slowly, cautiously, sat up, expecting to get pushed back down at any moment. When no one stopped him, he rolled his shoulders, jerking the left in a snapping movement. The arm whirred, the plates rippling and resettling as he did. He rolled his neck next, the vertebrae popping as he did. He slid off the bench to his feet, stretched out his back, hearing creaking and clicking, and then the pressure on his back was relieved. He turned, looked at the scientist who had spoken to him. He had backed away, but was looking tentatively optimistic.

"You'll need to go to Simulation. Security will escort you."

Eight men, dressed in black, armed to the teeth, fell into place around him, all out of arms reach, as they marched him to the next room. He didn't react, something in his mind telling him this was normal, this was safe. Something else was clawing at him, pushing, trying to get him to realise this was wrong, all _wrong_. It didn't get through, the conditioning holding strong.

**2014. January.**

"You've done well. They suspect nothing. Your next target is one who incites chaos with everything he does. He stands for everything opposite us, seeks to bring the world to heel underneath him. This needs to be big, be public, be visible. We need to send a message to those that work with him. The information you need is in the file in front of you. You will need to visit the armoury, I believe. Your team is waiting for you there. Dismissed."

He picked the file off the desk, stood, saluted, and left the room, heading towards the armoury as directed. He opened the file as he walked, staring down at the picture on the front page. He was sure he had seen the man before, was sure that his handler worked with him, was friends with him. He shook his head. It wasn't his place to make calls like that. He was just the weapon. He did what he was told.

The primary team had not done their job properly. He snorted. Couldn't trust anyone to do his job, that's why he was here. "The target is en route, heading your way."

He didn't respond, merely lifted his weapon.

He had failed. It was the first time he had failed a direct order. Now he was improvising, because he'd be damned if he failed the hit. Sprawled on the rooftop, he waited for the voice of his spotter. He couldn't see anything, couldn't see his target at all. He was completely relying on the word of the man on the next roof, and that made him edgy. It was the only way to make the shot. "Two feet to your right." He shifted, wordlessly setting up in the new location quickly. "Okay, hold there." He waited, finger resting lightly on the trigger guard, focussed down the sight even though all he was looking at was a bare wall. A pause. Silence. Then, "Fire."

He didn't hesitate, taking two shots as his spotter retreated, swiftly beginning to pack up before the noise had even faded. Stowing it nearby, he started to leave, when he heard a shout. He glanced back. There was a man following him. He ran, throwing himself into the action, knowing that the man was chasing him. There was a crash from below. He didn't pause, pushing himself harder, faster. He just needed to get to the edge of that rooftop, and he could disappear. Suddenly there was the sound of metal cutting through air. He turned, arm out, catching the shield as it flew directly at him. If his arm hadn't been metal, that hit would have taken it off. He glared, as the man, the man with the golden hair, stared at him, hesitating. He looked so familiar. And yet, not, in the way the scientists had, in the way his handler had. He narrowed his eyes, shaking the thoughts out of his mind. A flick of his wrist sent the shield flying back, and as the man looked down to catch it, he vaulted over the edge, dropping down three stories before catching a window ledge and slipping through the opening that was waiting for him. A murmur in his ear. "_Hit confirmed_."

**2014, January. **

His new target was the golden haired man. He didn't know why, didn't even think to ask, but rode silently in the back of the vehicle as they tailed the ma- the target, and his associates. They were on the freeway when the man in the front seat spoke clearly into the radio, authorising the start of the hit. The asset climbed out of the window, onto the roof of the car, as shots began firing around him. Ignoring everything, he jumped as soon as they were close, landing on the target's car easily. He pulled their man out, through the window, throwing him across the concrete barrier. His handler had said he was traitor now, so he took that to heart, making sure he ended up in the fast flowing traffic. If he survived that, the cleanup team would get him. He shifted forward, grabbing on tightly as the car swerved, fingers digging into the metal below him. He growled, then thrust his hand through the roof, ripping the steering wheel out to stop it happening agai- _shit_. The driver had hit the brakes, and he was thrown clear, out in front. He gritted his teeth as he caught himself on the road, slowing his fall, fingers digging into the asphalt. With a yank, he pulled his fingers out of the ground, and held out his hand. It was instantly filled with the grenade launcher by a member of the quickly arriving support team. He fired, catching the car with the blast, throwing it into the air. The target came out, and the others kept firing. He reloaded, fired again. The target had shifted everyone else out of the way, and took the hit directly to his shield, the force throwing him backwards, off the freeway. This had just gotten a lot harder.

The man was fighting for his life, and it was obvious. The highly trained, highly prepared fighter he had been expecting was there, but there was a rough edge to everything he did. The asset curled his lip, knowing the target couldn't see anything through the mask. He had already lost his glasses to the woman, and he knew he was going to get punished for that. His handler had said, had repeated over and over, that his identity must be secure, at all costs. He felt a shift in the flow of the fight, shifted to accommodate, but he wasn't fast enough. He was thrown forward, and as he rolled, he felt his mask pull away from his face. _Shit_. He turned, ready to catch any attack thrown at him, only to find the target standing with a bewildered expression on his face. The man looked like he had seen a ghost, and he was staring straight at him. The voice was quiet, hesitant in the still raging battle around them. "Bucky?"

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

_Steve_. The man's name was _Steve_. He was walking out of the water, dragging the unconscious man out with him. He was bleeding, they both were, and he shifted the hand against his ribs to better staunch the flow of blood. He couldn't go back now, couldn't return to the man who had kept and controlled him. Not now, not after saving his target. He still wasn't sure why he had done it, but the last thing he had said had struck a memory, somewhere in the tangled mess that was his head. Bucky. That must be him. His name. It sounded strange. Nickname most likely. But it was all he had. He was Bucky, the golden haired man was Steve, and they were going to _live_.

**Present**

The hand on his shoulder felt familiar now, as it shook him awake yet again. He frowned, squinted into the light streaming through the windscreen. Shit, he hadn't meant to fall asleep like that. Not while they were driving at least. He yawned, rubbing his hand across his jaw, and looked around. They were on a back road, the road itself looking worn and at the same time like it hadn't been used in years. He sighed, rolling his left shoulder sharply in a move that was as habitual as the arching of his back that followed. As everything clicked into place, he looked over at the man behind the wheel of the car. His features were hard, his hair glowing like spun gold with every move he made. He had no idea how he had forgotten about this man. He had no idea how they had managed to rip this man out of his head so completely, so that he hadn't recognised him.

"I'm sorry." He didn't know why he said it, other than he felt like he had to. He hadn't spoken much in the month they had been travelling together, almost nothing beyond what was necessary in their covert missions. They had been carefully and quickly taking down known Hydra bases, something he had been expecting to do alone, _had_ been doing alone for months until Steve had found him. Steve glanced over at the voice, looking surprised that he had spoken.

"You heard me. I'm sorry. All of this, everything that's happened, it's all on me. Hydra wanted chaos, and that's what I gave them. I helped them train more to be like me, helped them as they killed anyone that didn't fall in line with them. Maybe what I'm doing can make up for it, but there are some things that will never - _should_ never be forgiven. I never questioned them. God, I'm as bad as them. I didn't question them at all, not even when they pointed at you. I should have remembered. Should have resisted. Should have done _something_. No, don't say anything, I need to say this. Only this once, so you'd better listen to me." He wrapped his arms around his chest, tucked his feet up onto the dashboard of the car. "I remember everything they made me do, everything they did to me. I remember scratching your name into my skin until I couldn't remember it any more, I remember them burning it off me, not even bothering to wait for it to heal. I remember them breaking bones, not just my own but anyone I trained, anyone I sparred with, anyone they could use against me until I didn't _feel_ anymore. And yet I still remembered you. I didn't know your name, didn't know what you looked like, just remembered that someone was out there, someone I knew, someone who knew I existed. It got me in trouble. A lot of trouble. I broke conditioning, three times. Each time they made me do something abhorrent when they got me back, when I had recovered from the punishment, and the reconditioning. Once, it was an orp-"

He gritted his teeth, spitting the words out as his anger showed. "An orphanage. Once it was our friend. Our friend, Steve. I killed him and I didn't even flinch. Didn't hesitate when I put the bullet in Howard's head. And once, once it was the president. They had gotten so far into my head that I didn't know right from wrong, didn't know anything other than if I failed, I would be punished. So I didn't fail." He let out a shuddering breath, aware of the shocked silence between them. This was the most he had ever said since DC, more than everything else combined, and he wasn't done yet.

"I really don't know how you stand me, Steve. I'm not the person you remember, hell, I'm not even the person _I _remember. I'm not the person you knew and I've done nothing but bad. I'm broken, Steve, and though some part of me is glad you're here, part of me isn't, because part of me doesn't want you to see me doing this. And part of me doesn't want you to see me die. Because there isn't a life here for me. There never was. I don't belong here, I don't belong with you or anyone else. This was a suicide mission from the start, Steve, I hope you know that. And don't you start on that crap about how it wasn't me, how I was controlled, whatever else I can see all over your face. It _was_ me. It was my hands that took those shots, my hands that broke bones and slit throats. Now, I'm gonna shut up, pretend I never said any of that, and you're gonna stop giving me that look and just drive. Just know that I'm sorry. For what I've done, and what I still have to do."

He fell silent, and couldn't look at the man in the other seat, couldn't look at his best friend, the man he had seen as more than a friend, the man who had been the light of his life. He bit the inside of his cheek, staring out of the side window, staying hunched over. He felt a hand on his shoulder, flicked a glare at Steve.

"I'm not going to say anything, Buck. Not yet. But after this I'm going to kick your fucking ass."

_When the world is insane  
>You get used to the pain<br>And you don't even know what you feel  
>And I am like you, all alone and confused<br>But you know it's not forever_

* * *

><p><strong>First song: Ghost of You - My Chemical Romance, second, Not Broken - The GooGoo Dolls.<strong>


	5. Loss

_A hero of war  
>Is that what they see<br>Just medals and scars  
>So damn proud of me<em>

He grunted, catching a bullet in his side, and kept moving, Gunfire was echoing around him, most of it directed _at_ him, and he scowled behind his mask. The man closest to him seemed to realise exactly how much trouble he was in when he saw who was rushing him. He didn't even put up a fight as the Winter Soldier slashed and hacked through him and each and every person around him. He was the only one however, all of the others didn't hesitate, shooting through each other to get to the man set on killing them. It didn't take long for him to silence the last gun, and he crouched on the raised platform, making himself as small a target as possible as he regained his breath.

_"Winter, report."_

The alias he had been given was too long, and far too bulky, to be used on the comms, so he and Steve had decided simply on Winter, and he much preferred it. He didn't answer initially, scanning the area for any incoming hostiles. Nothing. Either that had been the last of the Hydra agents in this area, or the others were too smart to take him on face to face. He was fully aware that he was the threat all Hydra trainers used, the thing that went bump in the night. _Better behave or the Winter Soldier will come get you!_ Thankfully Hydra had been cocky, so sure he would never escape them, so sure he would never break conditioning that they hadn't told their soldiers how to take him down. Sure, there had been contingency plans, but they all involved him being in the lab. He was never going to be in one of their labs again, so they were out of options.

_"Report!"_

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were worried, Cap."

There was a sigh of relief from the other end. _"I was worried, you idiot. Now report."_

Since he had bared his soul on every topic but one, and made his intentions clear, Steve hadn't said anything about it, but on each and every mission his voice had come quietly through the earpiece, demanding an injury report every time he had dealt with Hydra agents. He supposed he should be grateful, the man had taken the bombshells quite well. But he wasn't shifting from his path. And this was the last base in the country. He supposed other teams had been working on eradicating Hydra as well, otherwise there was no way that they had gotten them all in only eight months, But here they were. He knew he wouldn't be leaving this bleak fortress alive, and he didn't exactly mind.

"Took a hit to my side, one to my shoulder. Pretty sure there's a dent in my arm as well, but that's not really an issue." He pressed his fingers to the injury on his side, then glanced at his fingers. He was still bleeding there, and he could feel a trickle of blood running down his back. That wasn't enough to even vaguely threaten his life, and he frowned. "I'm fine, Cap."

Steve knew full well that this was the last stop, that this was the end of the line, and he had been pestering him after every scuffle. His eyes flickered around as he mentally went over the map of the compound, and then he set his jaw, resolve hardening. This was the best way, he told himself. He would protect Steve. From Hydra, from him, it was one and the same. He knew what he had to do.

"Hello, you pathetic neo-Nazis! I'm sure you know who I am. I'm sure you know you're the last base standing. And I'm _sure_ you've noticed that you're under attack. You know where I am. Come and get me." He set down the microphone, sat himself in the large office chair, and swung his feet up onto the desk, crossing his ankles. He could hear yelling through the comm sitting on the table, and was glad he had taken it out. He could hear heavy booted footsteps outside the room, coming to a halt at the open door.

"Let's get this party started then, shall we?"

Steve showed up not long after that, wading through Hydra goons with the mast dangerous expression on his face. Had he been going to live through this, he would have been scared. As it was, he just waved at the blonde, punching one guy in the face and stabbing another. "Nice of you to join us, Cap!"

"I'm going to kill you myself!"

He laughed, but didn't say anything more as they worked together to take down the other agents.

It was a split second decision, one that saved Steve's life, but effectively ended his. The other man was fighting, shield in front of him, completely unaware of the agent behind him, gun raised. He kicked himself into gear, pushing himself harder than he ever had, throwing himself in the way just as the agent fired. The knife he threw caught the agent in the throat, but not before he managed to get off four shots, each one sinking into his stomach. The force of them sent him into Steve, and he landed on the ground hard. He groaned, pain nearly overwhelming him, and rolled to his back as Steve finished the last of the Hydra agents.

He had been fighting sloppily the whole time, letting a knife slip past his guard here, a bullet hit him there, but until this moment, he had been thinking that this whole dying thing was harder than it sounded. He was lucky that he had been given one last shot to make it happen, and had saved Steve's life in the process. The other man sunk to his knees beside him, hands pressing hard against his heavily bleeding stomach, swearing. He didn't even seem to notice the various wounds across his own body, so focused on trying to save someone who didn't want to be saved.

"Hey, Steve." He could feel his body starting to shut down around him. It felt just like cryo preparation, but this time, there was no icebox in sight. Nothing but the cool touch of death. His voice was weak, but he had to get it out, had to distract the other man long enough, so that it would be too late for revival, too late to save him. He could feel the other man's hands, the pressure on his stomach, but it wasn't enough, and they both knew it. "Steve." The supersoldier's eyes flicked to his, frantic and wide. "You know, I always loved you Steve. From the start, when you were the reckless child who could never back down from a fight." A pained half smile spread across his face as he looked up at the other man, the man with the golden hair, the man who had saved him time and time again, even from himself. Not this time though. His hand covered the two pressing on his stomach, and took a deep, shuddering breath that was cut short by coughing. "It was always you, Steve. I just thought you should know." He closed his eyes, relaxing against the hard concrete floor as the coldness crept through him.

"Bucky-" The choked word was the last thing he heard.

_I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking  
>maybe six feet<br>Ain't so far down_

* * *

><p><strong>The first quote is from Hero of War, by Rise Against, the second is One Last Breath, by Creed.<strong>


	6. Hope

_I know what I believe inside,_

_I'm awake and I'm alive_

"Do you remember when we were kids, bunking in your room when my mum was working in the wards? Your mum would always have us helping her in the kitchen. I was never any good at it, never had the talent, but you followed after her. God, you at eight probably would have been able to cook better than I can now. Remember when we snuck into the kitchen one night, determined to make a cake for your sister's birthday before anyone got up? None of the mixture made it to the cake tin, and your mum came out in the morning to find us crashed in the middle of the kitchen, as much batter on ourselves and the kitchen as we had eaten. She made us clean it all up before we cleaned ourselves, and yelled at us the whole time. She would do that thing you do, when you get worked up, and switch between English and Romanian without realising. I swear half of the Romanian I know comes from her yelling at us."

Bucky's eyes flickered open, and he fought back a groan. He felt like he had been hit by a truck. Then that truck had backed up and hit him again. He didn't move anything, just took in his surroundings. He was in a hospital, or what looked like one. Machines were all around him, most of them off. He had a drip in his arm, and some electrodes attached to his chest, but that was pretty much it. His stomach was on fire, and so damned itchy under the thick gauze covering it. His left arm was intact, and from what he could tell without moving it, still fully functional. His other arm had a few needles sticking out of it, and most importantly, Steve's hand grasping his tightly. Shifting his head the smallest amount, he looked at the man seated beside the bed. His eyes were closed, which was why he hadn't stopped talking, and he looked haggard, jaw covered in scruff, bags under his eyes, clothes rumpled like he had slept in them. If Steve looked awful, he was loathe to think about how _he_ looked. He frowned. Why was he here? Why was he still alive? _How_ was he still alive? He had all but bled out in that Hydra compound, had felt the touch of death. It had been Steve, of course. The man was so stubborn, he had been fighting him right up until he had taken those bullets, had tried to keep him from following through with his plan. He was angry, and Steve would be getting an earful for that, but now was not the time.

"You always were a little shit, Steve."

He huffed a small laugh as the blonde shot upright in his seat, eyes opening and head turning to look at him. His expression flickered through shock, relief, guilt, and happiness before settling on anger. Without moving, without letting his hand go, his eyes narrowed, and let loose.

"_Me_? I'm a little shit? Eight bullets, Bucky! Eight goddamned bullets they pulled out of you, on top of all of the grazes, through-shots, and knife cuts. God, they only just managed to revive you the _third_ time before they operated. I thought you had _died_, Buck."

"It was for the b-"

"Don't you fucking say it was for the best! Don't you fucking go there!"

"I saved your life!"

"Yeah, nearly at the cost of your own! You listen, Buck, you listen real good. Whatever Hydra did, whatever they made you do, it's on them, not you. That blood is on their hands. Your blood was very nearly on their hands. God, when you heal, I'm kicking your ass five ways to Sunday!"

The door popped open, and a young woman in hospital scrubs walked in, glaring at the both of them.

"You-" she pointed at Steve "shouldn't be exciting him. And you-" She pointed at him, "Shouldn't be yelling back. You've been out for nearly a week. Now if you can stop yelling at each other for five damned minutes, I'm going to check everything is healing right."

Steve sounded meek when he responded with "Yes, doc" before standing and stepping out of the way, taking the chair with him, not releasing Bucky's hand until the last moment.

"You saved my life, I hear. I suppose I should thank you."

"I suppose you should. And it wasn't just me, you should thank everyone in this ward, whether they helped or just had to put up with your surly boyfriend this past week."

"I'm not-"

"He's not-" His voice was cut off when she stuck something in his mouth, and she silenced Steve with a look. He lifted his left hand as she made sure the IV was attached properly to his right, and pulled the thing out of his mouth. A pencil? His confusion must have been obvious, as she took it back from him, merely saying "I needed you quiet. Now I need to check your stomach. Don't say anything, and preferably shallow breaths while I look." She pulled the sheet out of the way, and glanced at Steve, who gave her an even look and didn't move. She shrugged, went back to her check, peeling away the gauze layers and poked and prodded at his stomach while he breathed as shallowly as possible. She seemed happy with what she saw, because she repacked it without comment, taping the new gauze layer down and replacing the sheet. "You're healing faster than normal. I expect it's because of the supersoldier serum you've been exposed to. Not as fast as Cap, but still pretty fast. You should be okay to leave in a few days. In fact, I'm surprised it took you this long to wake up." She glanced at Steve then nodded, and left as quickly as she had come in. He supposed she had done the check, rather than one of the nurses, because she had been alerted that he was awake, but Steve didn't seem to surprised to see her.

Steve put the chair back where it had been, and perched on it again, rubbing his face with his hands. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I got a few hours last night."

"What's the time now?"

Steve checked his watch. "Nearly five in the evening."

He glared at the seated man, who glared back.

Steve opened his mouth, and he was half-convinced he was going to resume his rant. But he didn't, instead sighing softly and saying, "Also your timing sucks. You don't tell someone you love them when you're dying in front of them."

His heart skipped a beat, before beating faster. Thankfully Steve didn't look at the machines connected to him, or else he would've known as well. "Seems like a good time to me, better to get it s-"

Steve cut him off with a kiss. It was soft, gentle, barely a touch, but Bucky's eyes were open in shock as the blonde pulled back slightly. He opened his mouth as though he was about to apologise, a flush spreading across his cheeks, but Bucky didn't want to hear it. He reached up with his left hand, tangled it in Steve's hair and pulled the other man back to him, mashing their mouths together with little finesse. Steve hesitated for a fraction of a second before kissing him back, the touch communicating more than words ever could.

After a moment, Steve pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against Bucky's. "You're such an idiot, Buck. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, except let you die."

* * *

><p>A month later, Bucky was sprawled on the couch in Steve's small apartment. His feet were in Steve's lap, and his guitar was sitting on his chest as he plucked at the strings, humming softly. He wasn't entirely sure when he had started thinking of himself as 'Bucky' again, but that sense of self was grounding as his world had changed around him. He was no longer the soldier hunted by both sides, but Steve's friend, boyfriend, teammate, and backup. Fury and Hill had taken some convincing, but they had come around eventually, and after a test mission, had put him on the roster with Steve. He was sure they didn't trust him as far as they could throw him, but it was a start, and they couldn't exactly ignore recommendations from Steve, Natasha, and Sam Wilson of all people.<p>

Steve flicked his knee when he moved, then went back to drawing, his art pad resting lightly on Bucky's legs. He craned his neck to see what the other man was drawing, fingers pausing on the strings.

"No peeking." The book was tilted away from him, the pencil still scraping softly over the paper.

"Aww, but-"

"No buts, Buck, you can look when it's done."

Bucky pouted, and Steve glanced over at that moment, snorting at the mock-upset look. He grinned, sticking his tongue out at the artist, then went back to his guitar. He liked the life Steve had, and was glad to be a part of it. Happy to finally have Steve know how he felt, even happier to know that Steve felt the same way. Happy to have a life, and to have a future beyond death and destruction.

Happy to have someone to spend that future with.

_Like gravity, like love,_

_You get up after you fall,_

_I ain't afraid no more_

* * *

><p><strong>The first quote is from Awake and Alive, by Skillet, the second from Gravity, by Poets of the Fall.<strong>

**(You really didn't think I'd properly kill his off, did you? heh)**

**Well, that's it. Thank you for reading this all the way to the end. If you have any comments, questions, etc. leave me a comment, or send me a message on my writing blog.**


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